


too young to feel this old

by likecharity



Category: Disney RPF, Jonas Brothers
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-16
Updated: 2009-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Some days, Nick Jonas feels like a slow burn, a bomb waiting to go off.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	too young to feel this old

**Author's Note:**

> This is for all you amazing people who've been waiting for longer than you should've been. ♥ Especially Sissi for her amazing patience and general awesomeness, and Hannah for being a fountain of knowledge and for introducing me to the Jonas Brothers/Kings of Leon parallels. Title from 'Cold Desert' by the aforementioned band. XD

When they first hear Kings of Leon's _Sex on Fire_ , they're in the tour bus and it comes on the radio, playing softly amongst the noise and chatter. Nick's ears sort of prick up right from the moment it starts, because he notices the melody and he likes it, a _lot_. Joe's talking to Kevin, and Nick nudges him with his elbow and says "Who plays this?" in a sort of undertone, not meaning to interrupt.

Joe listens for a moment and then just shrugs. "Dunno," he says, but Nick can tell he likes it too because something in his face changes just a little bit, like the muscles relax or something, and he doesn't turn back to Kevin, leaving their conversation unfinished.

When the chorus starts up, their Mom tuts and reaches to change the station like she's on autopilot, like the word 'sex' requires instant action, control, censorship. She hardly bats an eyelid, Nick notices, and he figures it's a Mom thing, a protection thing, because he's seen it before—switching TV channels when there's too much skin or somebody swears.

But secretly, he thinks it's ridiculous.

***

Their obsession with the song grows, anyway. They hear it again, everywhere, and they all download it eventually and listen to almost nothing else for several days. Joe wants to sing it out like he does with all the songs he loves, and one night Nick hears it, loud and clear, a raw aching bellow of a sound in a voice that cracks at the end, cuts itself off. 

It's just a syllable, a pronoun, the start of a chorus that never ends.

 _You._

You, you, you.

***

He quickly forgets, in typical Joe fashion, about any vulgarity, and—the song having been stuck in all of their heads for so long now—takes to singing it in a low, lilting tone, as if testing the waters, seeing how far he can go. 

"Joe," their mother says warningly.

"Yes, Mom," Joe sighs, but later he takes to humming it, no words to offend, just the soft crooning melody—almost under his breath, it's so quiet. Nick's brain supplies the words anyway, churning through his mind like a mantra and making his face feel hot when Joe turns his way.

Joe gets a lecture for it anyway; Nick hears from his bunk, "Joseph, I don't want you singing that song, especially not around Frankie," and Joe's talking-back, the argument that there are no cursewords. He just gets a sharp _Joseph_ in response and Nick hears the sigh of defeat.

The next day Joe's singing _you set me on fire_ instead, flashing a knowing smirk Nick's way, but they both see the way their mother's jaw tightens and it's only a joke, anyway, a subtle defiance forgotten once it's done.

***

When Nick decides to download the whole album, things change. 

For one thing, it's probably the most awesome album he's heard in a _really_ long time. Sometimes, with some songs, he just feels this _connection_ , like when he listens, the music is seeping into his skin and bones and speaking to him somehow, like—it's one of those things that's almost impossible to explain.

He's tried talking to Joe about it before, earlier in the year when they'd just finished touring with Miley and he just _couldn't stop_ listening to Carole King's _So Far Away_. It's not even the kind of thing he'd usually listen to but something about it got right inside of him and the play count on his iPod just kept rising and rising. 

There'd be those long days of countless photoshoots and interviews, _Leno_ and _Ellen_ and Miley's movie premiere. Even after days they had 'downtime' (their Dad's name for many things it doesn't actually apply to; in this case hours of tour-planning, finalising setlists and practice-practice-practice) he'd find himself unable to wind down, in hotel beds or his bunk or, on the rarest occasions, his own bedroom, and buzzing, still buzzing, his mind replaying the events of the day to the point where he'd feel powerless to shut it off.

 _So Far Away_ was good to fall asleep to. It's kind of soothing and soulful in a way and he'd just put it on repeat and let it flow through him until he was drifting off, and it would get stuck in his head, too, _doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?_ and _one more song about moving along the highway_. One day when he was trying to catch some sleep on the jet on the way to Arizona for their first show of the tour, Joe plucked one of the headphone buds out of his ear and put it in his own, leaning in and listening. Nick was too exhausted to complain and fell asleep, and when he woke up Joe had both earbuds in and a kind of weirdly intense look on his face.

They really had to fight to be allowed to do the mash-up, and Nick felt bad, in a way, because nobody likes last-minute changes, especially not to sets that've been worked out to the last tiniest detail months in advance. But Joe really wanted to do it and Nick wanted to do it even _more_ than Joe did, and so they kept trying. 

Nick still doesn't know quite how they swung it, but after the first couple of dates _A Little Bit Longer_ was just starting to sound empty and wrong without the lyrics Nick was adding to it in his head. They tried it one night—again unable to sleep—Nick singing _A Little Bit Longer_ into the darkness of the still, silent hotel room, his breath feeling hot around the words, and Joe sang back to him, both of them lying flat in their beds, staring up at the ceiling.

It was so perfect Nick couldn't believe it and the next day he heard Joe talking to their Dad, his voice quietly angry in a way Nick hadn't remembered hearing it before, like he was making the hugest effort to stay in control of himself. He heard _Nick's song_ and _really means something to—us_ (hesitation all Joe's) and then all of a sudden they were there on stage and the words that were Nick's very own were mixing with the ones that had become his and Joe's, and twisting something in his heart he hadn't quite known was there.

Nick Jonas is not joking or exaggerating or being melodramatic when he says music is his life. Songs _affect_ him that way, they really do, and Joe _gets_ it.

He got it then, when Nick first tried to explain in a fumbling sort of way, words coming in fits and starts, why that song meant to him what it did. Joe got all serious and nodded and it was clear then that the song was special to him, too, maybe even more so.

And he gets it now, when he clambers into Nick's bunk without a word, gently slipping in one of Nick's earbuds and curling up against him. It's a long drive through L.A. and they listen to the whole album that way, Kevin coming in to wake them when the tracks have gone full-circle and are starting to repeat themselves.

***

" _Only by the Night_ ," says Joe, "is officially my new favourite album." 

Garbo sort of claps him on the back and Kevin says, "You say that about a different CD every week, dude," and their Mom does her Disapproving Face because—well, Nick doesn't know, maybe because Kings of Leon will always be 'that band who sing about sex' to her, as though they're the only band who do and as though that's _all there is to them_ —

He loves his Mom. Nick _loves_ his Mom. He can't imagine being able to love her more than he does, sometimes, but it doesn't stop the anger swelling up inside him when she disapproves of something he feels this strongly about, something that feels like it's really _connected_ to him in a way.

Because, that's the other thing.

Garbo's a big fan too and one day he says, casual as anything, "Do you guys know much about them?" when Nick and Joe are sharing headphones again and it'd be obvious what they're listening to even if Joe _wasn't_ singing along to _Use Somebody_ at the top of his lungs in a sort of croaky morning-throat howl.

And so it turns out Kings of Leon have some pretty weird parallels to their own life. Nick doesn't tend to pay attention to the actual _people_ behind the songs he likes—it's often come as a shock to him that the singer of his current favourite song is dead or something—so no, he didn't know that they're three brothers (and a cousin) and that their upbringing was, in Joe's words, 'freakishly similar' to their own.

It just makes Nick's feelings about the whole thing even more powerful.

The three of them get their greedy hands on the back catalogue in no time and Nick's heart swells with the opening of each and every song.

***

Nick Jonas is not one for escapism. Not at all. 

But everybody has to indulge sometimes. It's very, very occasionally—after an especially long day with lots of travelling, when he still feels like he's moving even when he's lying still in a hotel bed, or when they've done two shows in one day and his lungs are burning and his legs are made of lead. He lies there and puts his headphones in and listens, and he lets his thoughts go wherever they want to.

It's dangerous, he knows that, and so when he starts thinking _hypothetically_ , and _if things were different_ , he knows it's already gone a little too far. But he can't help imagining himself up on stage singing one of those songs— _Cold Desert_ 's been his favourite lately—with his brothers by his side and an audience before him who are there solely out of appreciation for their music, not because of how their faces look on the album cover.

It hurts his heart, sometimes, to ache for that sort of freedom, but he does it anyway when everything else gets too tough not to. And then he feels like the most ungrateful, selfish person in the entire universe and beats himself up about it until he finally drifts off to sleep, a little sick with guilt and the songs still taunting him in his mind.

It's dangerous to go too far with it anyway, to let yourself imagine a world where things happen that just _can't_ in reality. Nick knows that. When it feels possible and he's got things to convince himself of that—the past similarities between themselves and Kings of Leon and the clear differences between them _now_ —it's bad because of the temptation and the fact that he's being tempted at all.

And when it's something that doesn't feel possible in any way, shape or form, it's worse. No one can afford, really, to bargain with themselves that much, to give that much of themselves away to a fantasy world. The return to reality's the worst, and it's best just to stay as grounded as possible no matter what. Nick knows _that_ better than anything.

***

And again, Joe gets it. 

Nick's listening to _Aha Shake Heartbreak_ and Joe's pressed in beside him on the bunk, headphones shared once again, and they listen in a sort of stupefied silence, too tired to move or talk after the day's exhausting events.

And then they're partway through _Taper Jean Girl_ and Joe says, in a sort of low mumble, "Imagine being able to say that," and then pauses and clears his throat, and shifts on the bed until he's on his side and Nick can feel his warm breath against his neck. And then he adds, "On stage, and like...not ending up with a billion parents out for your blood."

Nick says, "What?" a second too fast, before he realises that he knows what Joe means and that asking for elaboration is just going to make him say—

"Cunt," Joe says, in a breathy whisper right against the shell of Nick's ear and it makes Nick's muscles go sort of tense.

He's told Joe not to curse countless times, when Joe's been mad or excited or stubbed his toe on the radiator or something and let out a _fuck_ because their parents were out of earshot. Nick doesn't like it, not really; it just doesn't seem necessary and there are better ways to express your feelings than using words designed just to shock. And he especially doesn't like hearing Joe say words like that because Joe's meant to feel the same way about it as he does.

Whatever; he gets what Joe means right now anyway. It's not like he _wants_ to swear on stage, though he can easily imagine the thrill Joe would get from it. But the thought of being _able_ to, without—like Joe says—parents all over the world wanting to _actually murder them_ , is kind of amazing. 

It's only natural, Joe's said many times, that their image gets tiring, but Nick still hates himself for feeling that way. Because okay, sometimes he just wants to take a really long nap instead of standing in front of hundreds of screaming girls. Sometimes, he wants to be able to take a girl out without having to ask permission from about ten people first. Sometimes he wants to go places where the cameras won't follow. Sometimes he wants to wake up at 11am and think, _I have absolutely nothing to do today._

He's only ever admitted it to Joe, and even then not in so many words, just sort of downplaying it even though he felt close to tears because he couldn't remember what his own bed felt like.

He could _only_ talk to Joe about that sort of thing, because Joe's the only person in the world who he thinks would accept him for _anything_. There've been so many times when he's confided in Joe about something he's felt awful or guilty or just plain _stupid_ about, and Joe's just completely understood it, or if he hasn't he's tried his hardest, and more often than not he's been wondering or worrying about the same thing.

"Can you imagine, like—" Joe shifts again on the mattress, unbothered by Nick's silence, both of them sliding right past the word _cunt_ like they've been so programmed to do, "—being able to just, do...what they do? One day?"

One of the things they're so good at, Joe and Nick, is being able to have whole conversations in just a few sentences, to get exactly what the other one's trying to say even when they're floundering with words and coming up with sentences much like the one Joe's just said, sort of broken and vague. But to Nick it makes perfect sense—more sense than anything else.

He could say about a million things to Joe right now, but in the end he just says one. He reaches behind him to curl a hand around Joe's hip in a way that's intended to be comforting even though the angle's awkward and twists his wrist and his thumbnail catches on Joe's pocket.

"We will," he says, kind of hoarsely, too quiet like he's worried if he speaks up someone from management is going to leap out and accuse him of the most _severe_ lack of gratitude. 

And then he remembers that it's just him and his brother and it's one of those rare occasions when he can say what he likes. And so he repeats it.

"We will, Joe."

***

Nick feels more inspired by Kings of Leon than he has by any band in a long time. Kevin agrees, and Joe does too, though he puts it 'by anyone in the world ever'. 

At some point it stops mattering so much what Mom and Dad think, because this is just _bigger_ than that—Nick's got pages and pages of lyrics scribbled down and every time he listens to a song off one of the albums he gets the urge to pick up his guitar and just _play_. When interviewers start asking them who inspires them, whose music they're liking right now, the band's name just trips off their tongues and they hardly give the answer a second thought.

They've been encouraged to name-drop Honor Society and they do on occasion, but it's hard not to be honest when there's a question like that that _means_ as much as it does. Their Mom worries about the young fans who are going to check out the music after hearing the Jonas Brothers mention it, because by this time she's read enough articles to know that a chorus with the word 'sex' in it is the least of her worries when it comes to Kings of Leon.

But Joe shoots back angrily, "I hope they do."

"They're really talented, Mom," Kevin tries to reason with her, but she has that pained look on her face like they've done something really hurtful somehow. 

Neither she nor their Dad actually _tells_ them to stop mentioning Kings of Leon in interviews, though, so it's simple: they don't.

It turns out to be a good decision, because in early February at the Grammys, they actually get to _meet_ them.

It turns out to be sort of a blessing and curse at the same time.

***

The thing is, Nick really, really, _really_ appreciates almost _everything_ about the position he's in in his life. He's intensely, madly, almost _ridiculously_ thankful to every single person who's made this possible for them, from God and his family to Disney and Miley, to the fans, to everybody who's ever interviewed them, reviewed their music, decided to put the image of their faces on a child's backpack. The idea of letting it go in any way is so terrifying it just doesn't bear thinking about, so, for the most part, he doesn't. 

But after they've met and had a conversation with Kings of Leon, things get a little more difficult. It's not about swearing or drinking or having sex. It's not so much about the general freedom they have, anymore, the idea that they're not controlled or manufactured at all and they have a say in their own schedule. It's about the fact that they play exactly the kind of music they _want_ to play and that's something Nick wants so bad that it actually, physically hurts him.

They get enough of a say in it for it not to be a big deal about ninety nine per cent of the time. In fact, in the past, it was never really an issue at all. They enjoy the music they play, so it's fine.

But the fact that before they're allowed to cover a song they have to go through about fifty people first to get permission, it's just—well, it's not fair. And he hates how he's made to feel like such a horrible person for feeling that way. He remembers when Joe was nagging at everybody to let them do _Free Fallin'_ and how when initially he wasn't allowed and he made a bit of a fuss, the underlying meaning of it all was _it should be enough for you to be singing your own songs._ It should be enough that they're singing in front of an audience at all.

But sometimes it just _isn't._ Sometimes, Nick wants to cover Kings of Leon's _Cold Desert_ without having to argue with anybody about it. Sometimes he wants to play something that _won't_ be reviewed as 'infectious' or 'catchy'. Sometimes he wants the music they play to really _mean_ something, to him and to his brothers and to everybody who hears it. Sometimes, he wants to sing _Gravity_ the way it was written, not omitting 'hell' for 'heck'.

Sometimes he wants to write a song about everything he's feeling and everything he's thinking without having to worry about whether it's completely and totally 'appropriate'.

***

Joe and Nick have the recording studio to themselves and they're just messing around, really, waiting for the others to come back, warming up and trying things out, playing bits of their old songs and bits of the new songs they're testing. 

And then Nick starts playing the opening chords of _Sex on Fire_ just because they come into his head, and Joe grins really wide at him and starts singing, and it almost doesn't matter if they're overheard because it sounds really, really good. It doesn't matter that Nick's only playing by ear and stumbles over a few parts, because Joe's keeping up, dragging out a note a little longer where Nick falters, and _god_ , his voice sounds good, like he's really singing from his gut, belting it out like he's always wanted to.

They only get about two thirds of the way through, and then Nick loses it, partly because it's just a tricky riff and partly because of something else, something that makes his fingers sort of stiffen against the strings and stop. And then he feels this weird tension in his muscles all over and he hangs his head and Joe comes to him, hand sliding over his shoulder.

"What's up?"

Nick shrugs, because he doesn't know, not really, it's just—well, this is the way it should be, they should be playing stuff that makes them feel like this, thrilled and energised like this, and sort of _hot_ inside in a way Nick can't explain. But he can't explain any of this, can't say any of this out loud, because he's supposed to be eternally thankful that they're in a recording studio at all. The type of music they're playing _shouldn't matter_ , but it does, especially when it's been such a struggle working on the new songs and trying to get the balance right between the sound they want and what the fans are used to, and this song—this one, simple song, in a minute of unpractised strumming and singing—has made Nick feel like he's about to explode.

"I just—I want it to be like this all the time," seems to be the best way to sum that up.

Joe nods. He doesn't say anything, he just nods, and Nick figures that's because he gets it. And then he's being pulled into a really tight hug and he sort of laughs tiredly into Joe's shoulder and lets himself be squeezed, feeling Joe's chest firm against his own.

"It will," says Joe, mostly into Nick's hair, and Nick can feel him smiling.

***

The message comes back quick: _You can't sing this._

It's unapologetic, the statement, and it's management, the _higher powers_ and Nick feels like he's being _judged_ like nothing else, like he's written something despicable that's not even worth paying any further attention to.

At first he thinks about what he told that one reporter about using metaphors to mask real feelings and real events, and he panics, worrying that maybe he was nowhere near subtle enough and everyone who's seen those two crumpled pages of stapled-together notepaper knows _exactly_ what was going through Nick's head when he wrote on them. But then he calms down and regains rational thought. If that'd happened, the reaction would have been far, far more than just a simple _you can't sing this._

They don't get much more than that, after all. It's just a flat-out rejection that reminds Nick of what Demi said she was told about practically all of the songs she'd written for her album—'too dark', whatever that was supposed to mean. 

Once he gets over the initial disappointment of it it's all reluctant acceptance—like, of _course_ they can't sing about pain and regret and guilt and denial, unless they cover it up quick with a story about falling in love with some girl who works at the pretzel stand at the mall—

And yeah, okay, maybe there's a little bitterness, too.

***

There's not much time to dwell on it—to dwell on _anything_ because work on the album's quickly forgotten about in favour of jetting off to New York. They've got a ton of promotion to do for their movie and there's just—there's _just. No. Time._

Some days, Nick Jonas feels like a slow burn, a bomb waiting to go off.

***

Nick's in bed in record timing, burrowing down under the thick soft sheets and letting out a long, long sigh. It's dark in the bedroom but he can see into the ensuite bathroom, see the silhouette of Joe brushing his teeth in the dim rectangle of light through the doorway. Nick watches him and feels his heart rate finally slowly, though his feet still feel like they're stretching, walking and jumping all over stages and sidewalks that aren't there. When he blinks he sees camera flashes. 

Joe comes out of the bathroom, pulling the cord to switch off the light with a _ping_ and padding across the hotel room floor towards Nick's bed, not his own. In the darkness Nick can make out the way Joe's pajama pants are slung low on his hips, the slightly-jutting bones bracketing a dark dusting of hair leading down below the waistband. Nick looks at that instead of at Joe's face, and doesn't know why.

Joe climbs into the bed with him, clumsily, kneeing Nick in the ribs. "I just—" he says, "can I—"

He doesn't finish the question but Nick's nodding anyway, almost exasperatedly because whatever Joe asks Nick'll give it to him, and doesn't Joe _know_ that?

"It's been a long day," Joe says.

Nick thinks about how that's kind of stating the obvious, and then wonders why he's picking holes in everything all of a sudden, as though his aim is to tear something apart.

"Yeah," he says in the end, and suddenly the silence in the room is stifling, like white noise or something, like he can _actually hear the silence_ , which sounds like something Joe would say but he's really just so intensely aware of it right now.

It's like that, sometimes, though, especially after they perform because it's noise, loud noise _all the time_ , even when there's no music there's the screaming. And silence just sounds _weird_ after something like that.

Joe sort of nuzzles into Nick's shoulder and Nick waits for him to say something about how the day went or what's going to happen tomorrow, but he doesn't. Nick would speak instead but he doesn't actually feel the need to, for once. Some distant part of his brain is still dissecting the day's events but the rest of him is _tired_ , too tired to go through it all. It strikes him then that that's a bit of a new feeling, and that's weird, and a little scary.

He wants to move closer to Joe—closer than they are already, with Joe's leg sort of haphazardly thrown over Nick's and his face against his collarbone—for the comfort, because whatever he's going through, chances are Joe's going through it too or has in the past. That's just the way things are. Even with the diabetes, even though that's Nick's fight and his fight alone, most of the time it feels like Joe's right by his side in the battle, hovering nearby when he checks his blood sugar, asking him about his levels almost irritatingly often. And through their discovery of it, Joe was there, worried sick like _he_ was the one with the disease.

They just—they share stuff. Feelings, even.

But something holds him back, and he listens to his own breathing instead, mingling with Joe's in the dark. He can feel the slightly sweaty waves of Joe's hair tickling his skin and the heat of his brother's body pressed flush against him, and all of a sudden he's wondering when Joe's going to get up and go back to his own bed, because maybe he wants _space_ right now instead of being able to feel someone else's heartbeat and smell their toothpaste-breath.

"I'm really tired," says Joe after a moment and his voice sounds all tight and small, and it hits Nick then just how tired _he_ is, of too many things.

He knows as he turns his head that something's going to follow that, that that one movement is one of those things that's like a turning point, that in the future he'll look back on this split-second and think _if I'd just stayed staring at the ceiling—_

Because then he's looking into Joe's eyes for just a moment too long, neither of them looking away, and his whole body feels tight and Joe's leg is warm and heavy on top of his and there's that steady fast thud of Joe's heartbeat again, his chest pressed up against Nick's arm. And Joe sort of just moves a tiny, tiny bit forwards, so that their foreheads are touching, and that's okay, and Nick relaxes slightly even though he thinks he's still holding his breath, and Joe's close, so close, and so still. 

When he tilts his head, Joe does too almost automatically, echoing the movement with ease and their noses touch now, soft, resting. Nick's gaze flickers up just to check if Joe's still looking at him and then their eyes lock again and actually, he can't really see that well this near, it's just blurry close shapes in the dark. 

Their lips brush and it doesn't come as a shock—it's not feverish or sudden or electrifying; the world doesn't even end. Nick breathes out slowly and a little shakily and Joe smiles against his mouth and they stay like that, lips just gently touching, Joe's curved upwards in some kind of ironic amusement and Nick's still slightly pursed and tense.

"I'm," says Joe very, very quietly, "really tired," and the look in his eyes is just a little bit too intense.

Nick wants to say "I know", wants to say "yeah", wants to say _anything_ , but his mouth can't seem to form words because all it wants to do is kiss Joe, kiss him and kiss him until they don't need to speak at all.

But he doesn't, because Nick Jonas isn't rash or impulsive and he tries his very, very best to avoid making stupid decisions.

***

When Nick wakes up he's tangled in Joe's limbs, his pillows are half off the bed and it's uncomfortably hot. He sort of kicks around feebly, fumbling for his phone to switch off the alarm that doesn't seem to have stirred Joe yet. He feels sweaty and his head is aching, a sort of dull throb not helped by the insistent beeping of the alarm. He locates his phone, turns the noise off. He nudges Joe gently. 

Some part of him is slowly beginning to panic at the thought of Mom or Dad or Kevin coming in to check that they're getting up, and seeing the two of them in bed together. It's happened a couple of times before and hasn't been a big deal, but even though he knows they wouldn't see this as any different to the other times, it _would_ be.

But somehow that's the only real worry in his mind, because then Joe's rolling over, stretching, pushing hair back from his face with the back of his hand, and looking up at Nick with a sort of sleepy smile. And it's okay.

"Morning," Nick says, cautiously.

"Morning," Joe yawns. He has sleep in the corner of one eye and a little bit of drool next to his mouth. "You still kick, dude, I think I have bruises."

Nick laughs. He knows they're not going to talk about it, and that's probably not okay, but they're not freaking out and running away from each other, so Nick considers it a good morning, all in all.

***

As the day goes on, though, he can't seem to stop thinking about it. 

The day is absolutely packed, they have a hundred things to do, and yet somehow he still can't stop thinking about it. 

It's lucky that he's so used to answering questions, so used to knowing what to say to sell tickets, because his mind is somewhere else entirely during every interview.

He can't stand how he's becoming cynical about _this_ , of all things, about his music, his job, his _life_ , and when it comes to Joe his brain is being foolishly and stubbornly naïve. He's starting to entertain the notion that what he and Joe did last night was okay, and didn't mean anything weird or wrong. And it's easy to think that, really, when there was nothing about it that _felt_ bad, and nothing about it that seemed unexpected or uncomfortable. He and Joe have always been very physical with each other and maybe it doesn't matter that his breath hitched or his heart beat faster, because that's happened sometimes when Joe's hugged him before, sat particularly close to him, touched him in pretty much any way.

It's been like that for a while. This just feels inevitable.

It's scary and comforting at the same time.

***

They don't really talk when they get back to the hotel that night, when they split off from Kevin in the corridor and go into their room. It's the first time since the morning that they're alone together for more than a few seconds and for some reason it's quiet; not awkward, just quiet. 

Again the silence is deafening, like roaring wind through windows.

They shrug off coats and toe off shoes and end up in the bathroom at the same time, Nick reaching for his toothbrush as Joe turns on the water. Nick hesitates for some reason, arm sticking out in front of him, and the water keeps running. Then, abruptly, Joe turns the faucet right back off again and turns around to face him.

"D'you wanna—talk," he says, and then laughs, and Nick laughs too, shaking his head.

"No," he says, and it should be obvious, he thinks, "not...at all."

Joe laughs again, shaking his head, and then Nick gets that urge boiling up inside of him again, to kiss Joe's smiling mouth until it's all over. He holds back as best as he can but it's like his body is gravitating towards his brother automatically, gentle movement like he's being drawn forwards by some other force.

"'Cause...Nicky, this is weird," Joe says, and he's so close now they're almost touching, and Joe's voice breathes the words low and worried.

"I know, but—" Nick hears himself saying, not really thinking, just responding straight away, and then Joe's touching him, hands on his shoulders and then sliding down his arms, slipping to rest on his hips.

He takes a breath but it's like he can't pull enough air, like there isn't enough air in the world to calm him down right now. It's like he's been doused with something and Joe's offering a lit match. It feels like his whole body is buzzing with anticipation and he swallows, and then he licks his lips and he looks at Joe's, and he's ready this time, ready to make this stupid decision and see what happens.

Joe pulls him a little closer. It's too warm, all of a sudden, claustrophobic, the air heavy all around them and Joe's thigh strong and hot pressing between Nick's legs. Nick looks down and brings his body as far forwards as it can go, pushing Joe back against the counter. He breathes; Joe breathes. He risks looking back up at him and Joe's not smiling anymore, his gaze is dark with something and it looks like he's searching Nick's eyes for the same.

The thought that they _can't do this_ doesn't cross Nick's mind at all. He accepts completely that it's going to happen, and it's going to happen now.

Joe tilts his head just a little and Nick snaps. That's it—he bursts into flames, the fire spreading through him as his mouth meets Joe's, their lips opening almost instantly, hungry and desperate and not letting any one feeling last before moving onto another. It all happens so fast. Joe's hands are everywhere, gripping Nick's hips tightly and then sliding up, fisting in his shirt, wrapping around his back, his shoulders. Nick's hand goes automatically to Joe's face, holding him, fingers tangling in his hair.

"We have to," he half-pants, against Joe's mouth, but Joe swallows the words, tongue sliding between Nick's lips and it's all gone, everything, just reduced to the two of them pressed up against this sink together, grabbing, touching, holding, in ways they never have before but right now Nick just can't understand _why_.

But then Joe's leg shifts and Nick's hips buck forward almost automatically and—

"Fuck," Joe hisses, sharply, his teeth grazing Nick's bottom lip, and Nick jolts, trying to pull himself back and failing.

"No," he says, even though he's still moving, holding Joe's hip now as if to keep him in place and pressing himself forwards. "Oh—"

"Don't, Nick," says Joe, and Nick knows he means _don't stop_ , and doesn't, and then Joe's reaching between them and the panic floods through Nick fully this time, a cold sweat of dread and a thrill of hot excitement at the exact same time. "No—I'm just—" Joe says, words halted and throaty.

Joe unzips his pants and Nick pulls back so that Joe can fumble with his as well, and then his hands are at the small of Nick's back, and they move together, frantic and clumsy, trying to kiss at the same time but not quite having the right coordination. Joe licks into Nick's open mouth and Nick holds tightly onto the handful of Joe's hair he's clasped, and Joe's hands slip down to Nick's ass, clutching. Joe groans openly, honestly, and Nick can hardly breathe, his head slipping to Joe's shoulder as he pants against the slick skin of Joe's neck.

When Nick comes it sears right through him and his knees buckle, and he wants to bite down on Joe's shoulder to stop the way he whines helplessly. But then Joe's coming too, fingernails digging in and hips drawing up and then it's over, both of them sticky and stunned and not wanting to move, even just to look each other in the eye.

Nobody puts the fire out.

***

Even when they're calmed down and cleaned up and lying in one of the hotel beds together, side by side, cooling down in the air conditioning, everything still feels huge and close and stifling. 

The scariest thing is that it's _not scary_ , Nick is genuinely _not scared_ , and that concerns him like nothing else. He knows he should be freaking out right about now but he's got Joe right beside him, their fingers loosely interlocked between them on the cool sheets, and they're breathing at the same time, calm and steady.

"I want this," says Joe, and stretches, long and taut beside him, and Nick watches the muscles flex and hollow, "I want it to—" he pauses, bites his lip, seeming frustrated. He flops back, body limp and utterly relaxed. "I want this to happen again."

And Nick looks at him, and he feels the flames licking at his belly and he thinks about the fact that right now he can do whatever he wants and this is _his_ , his and Joe's alone. It's a part of his life where each and every decision is up to him and it's dangerous, it's so dangerous. He could step back and come to his senses and make all of this stop, could continue controlled and constrained for the rest of his life.

He kisses his brother instead, long and slow and open. "It will," he tells him, his voice low and sure.

And he knows, with a sick sort of exhilaration and dread snarled together in the pit of his stomach, that it's true.

Because Nick Jonas doesn't do things by halves.


End file.
